


Repêchage

by Ruenis



Series: Fin [1]
Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Flower People, M/M, Post-Canon, Quote Based Fic, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 03:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15427599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruenis/pseuds/Ruenis
Summary: "Isn't it ironic that we kill flowers because we consider them beautiful?"





	1. Chapter 1

Slaine shifts a bit in his chair as he gazes at the brunet, heart caught in his throat. “What're the roses for?” he asks, trying not to gaze at them too pointedly; the red is the brightest thing he has seen in quite awhile, it is almost painful to look at it spot-on. It is.. probably the warmest thing, he has seen in quite awhile; his bland, steel cell does not have much decor, and seeing such cold colours each day is draining, tiring. Inaho himself does not stand out, either, wearing those dark colours and keeping his presence small. The tips of his fingers feel tingly as he digs them into his lap, nervous, and Inaho's immobile presence only worsens the sinking feeling in his stomach.

“They're for you,” Inaho answers, and it is in that same, monotonous tone that he has used during their three years together – except now, it has an unrecognisable, underlying lilt added to it. “No thorns, of course. And the stems are shorter than they look, right now,” he adds, turning the bouquet a bit in his hands, and when Slaine looks a bit closer, through the white tissue paper, he can see that they are indeed cut quite shorter than roses usually are. No doubt they had to be cut to prevent an 'accident'.

“.. what are you apologising for?” Slaine asks. There is an uncomfortable feeling in his chest, where his heart is – it kind of feels as if it is burning, and his stomach feels a bit empty, as if he had not eaten this morning.

Not that he _had_ eaten, the breakfast here makes him nauseated, but he tries to ignore the feeling, nonetheless.

“Nothing,” Inaho says, though he pauses afterward, as if giving it more thought than he had initially done, whenever he had decided to come up with whatever he had planned. “You may think of these as an apology for what I'm about to say,” he offers instead, setting the roses on the table, not trusting himself to hand them to Slaine directly. The bouquet could fall, either of them could fumble, or the roses could be crushed, or Inaho may snap the already short stems as he readies himself for this next part.

The roses have to be intact. They have to be intact, until..

Slaine gazes at the roses for another moment more, looking away from them again to gaze up at Inaho, who has yet to sit down since he had arrived, five minutes ago. It had taken a bit for either of them to speak, Slaine too taken aback by the roses, and Inaho lost in his own thoughts, as usual. Still, despite not looking at them, he reaches out a bit and allows his fingers to smooth over the petals, and the waxy, smooth surface feels almost foreign. They are now the best thing in his cell, the only spark of life held within the glass walls.. And even then, they are temporary, and will wilt and wither away.

Flowers.. do not belong in the hands of dead men.

“I love you.”

It is so soft, Slaine almost does not hear it, and that uncomfortable feeling in his chest grows ever more tight and painful, like a knot being tugged on. A hard lump forms in his throat. “E-eh?” he breathes, and it comes out a shaky, weak stammer of a word – a pitiful excuse, really.

“I love you,” Inaho repeats, and it is a bit firmer this time, louder.

_Real._

Remaining quiet, the blond cannot help but drop his gaze, mouth dry, heart still caught in his throat, making it feel as if he will be sick if he says something, as if his heart will spill from his lips.

“Slaine,” Inaho calls, and he is using the softer tone again, “Do you accept my apology?”

It is then that Slaine realises Inaho came here with the notion of confessing, and only confessing – perhaps he meant to even leave afterward, perhaps he intended on saying his part and then escaping before Slaine could even muster a response, vocal or physical.

“Why did you buy me roses?” Slaine finally manages to ask, and the look of surprise on Inaho's features indicates he was not expecting such a response. The rose's petals are still soft against his fingers, far softer than his pillow and blanket, and they are chilled, now, having had time to adjust to his cell's temperature. Or perhaps they were always chilled. Perhaps Inaho came straight from a florist's to come and see him.

Inaho's gaze flickers toward the roses, and finds Slaine's hand shaking a bit, fingers trembling. “They reminded me of you,” he answers quietly, “I bought them.. for you. If things were different..”

Swallowing his heart, Slaine feels it settle somewhere in his stomach, still wound up in a painful, tugging knot, still too, too warm. Gaze slipping downward again, the roses become a red blur in his eyes, and he feels something warm sting his lips after a moment, warm and wet and –

“Slaine.”

It is soft again, barely audible, and Slaine manages to lift his head just enough to find Inaho's blurry hand beside his own, hesitant, reluctant, flat against the table. It looks nice, beside the blurry roses, warm compared to the steel top of his table.

“Slaine.”

Slaine lifts his head a bit more, and finds Inaho's dark, dark eye through his blurry vision, concerned and still hesitant. “.. I..” he starts to say, slow, and the words taste bittersweet in his mouth, bittersweet and heavy, and yet.. “.. love you, too..”

And he does. Truly.

Perhaps that is why it hurts so much.

Inaho's fingertips graze his own, and Slaine swears he sees a smile through his compromised vision.

* * *

 

“I want to know how long.”

Inaho raises his head a bit at Slaine's murmur, and adjusts himself a bit in the freezing chair, the steel assaulting his skin.

Though Slaine is lying on his bed, it feels wrong to impose on his space, wrong when the other is so peacefully under the one thick blanket he is allowed, reading a book. A book full of children's stories and lullabies, courtesy of the request he made last Christmas, a book that Inaho has seen him read and reread several times over.

“How long what?” he asks, and his voice betrays the chill he feels, shaking just a bit as it comes out. How Slaine can handle walking about his cell, without socks or shoes or a long shirt, Inaho attributes to the fact that his home country was quite cold and the subzero of space is something one has to eventually get used to, after living up there for years.

“How long you've loved me,” Slaine says, and the word comes out easy, easy, yet soft, and genuine, and Inaho watches as he shuts his book and hides it under his pillow, but does not turn around to face him.

The spot where his heart is warms and tightens. It takes a moment for Inaho to answer: “I'm not sure. A year. A year and a half, maybe.”

Inaho tears his gaze away when the other does not respond, and instead stares at the roses lying on the small nightstand. Other than the chessboard it houses, it is empty, the guards still hesitant to allow Slaine to keep the brush and toothbrush he uses during the morning and night. _I need to buy him a vase. A shatterproof vase he can keep, until.._ The thought trails off, and Slaine shifts a bit beside him, pulling the covers a bit more over his head.

“I never thought I'd fall for someone like you.”

“Your enemy?”

“.. yes, kind of. The 'Hero of Earth'. A general. My warden,” Slaine corrects, “They.. could attribute this to Stockholm syndrome, you know.”

Inaho remains quiet just for a moment. “They won't,” he says, listening to Slaine's quiet sighs, no doubt a response to their current situation.

Turning over on his side, Slaine faces the brunet, allowing himself to stare up at him, balled up hands grasping his thick blanket tightly, visible even outside of the cocoon he has wrapped himself in. “A week,” he says, soft and low and hurt.

“.. a week,” Inaho returns, reaching forward just a bit to graze the curve of Slaine's knuckle. Another one of those pained smiles finds its way to his features, and Slaine can only return it with a pained one of his own.

* * *

 

Slaine is quiet as he gazes at his roses, a faint, bare smile on his lips as he tugs on the outer petals, just enough to make sure they are still healthy and attached to the center. They rest in a small vase Inaho had brought him yesterday, after realising they would wilt if they were just lying around; the vase is made of metal, rounded, and unbreakable with the materials in his cell, at the moment. The petals are still chilled to the touch, have been since Inaho brought them two days ago. They will last a few more days, and then..

“Do you want more?”

“It'd be a waste,” Slaine says truthfully, shaking his head a bit, “Bring me more afterward.” Pulling away from the roses, he turns to smile at the brunet, teal eyes glossy and tired, and that bare smile turns bittersweet, painful.

“Slaine.”

“I don't think I've heard you use my name as much as you've been using it, lately,” Slaine says softly, remaining still as Inaho steps toward him, that serious, hurt look on his features, “It's nice. Hearing it without any malice or disgust.”

Inaho's fingertips graze Slaine's hand, his fingertips, before settling on his wrist, loosely gripping it, still hesitant, still careful. “Slaine,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper, “What do you want to do today?”

The blond goes quiet again, thinking about the limited options available to him – they were all appealing, much more appealing than he had thought they would be, at least – and allows Inaho to gently rub his thumb against the bone in his wrist. “.. I.. want to look at the stars,” he says after a moment, and Inaho softens a bit, that pained expression slipping into a more understanding one, a more affectionate one, “all night. That's what I want to do.”

“Okay,” Inaho murmurs, allowing himself a small, fragile smile, “That's what we'll do. Let's get you changed into something warmer.”

 

 

“It's beautiful.”

Adjusting his arm just a bit, Inaho's fingertips linger on Slaine's hair for a few moments, and he feels his bicep slowly going numb as the blond uses it as a makeshift pillow.

“It's much better than the view from my window,” Slaine continues in a whisper, and Inaho's fingertips graze his cheek, warm, warmer than the chilly air around them. The starry sky above them is near-black, white glistening above them, the sprinkled fragments of the moon painted a warm, light blue.. It kind of looks like an aurora, almost, a broken, sprinkled aurora in their sky, littering the black with a warm glow. “This could've been romantic,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead further against Inaho's shoulder, “If things were different.”

Inaho remains quiet, listening to Slaine's steady breathing, feeling his hair against his cheek. Slaine is warm, this close, and his presence is comforting. An odd, yet welcome change to how antagonistic and distant he felt before.

.. if things were different..

It is nice, having Slaine so close, now quite literally within arm's reach. They were together this whole time, locked in that small cell, and yet Slaine has never been closer than he is right now.

* * *

 

“.. a rose bush. On a trellis,” Slaine says the next day, voice still soft, low, and Inaho has to almost strain himself to hear despite them lying next to each other, “Is that.. is that possible?”

Inaho stares at him for a moment, the warmth of their palms against the other's distracting, more than he is used to in the cold cell. “Yes,” he answers, nodding as best he can, “You want me to make it grow upward.” Slaine's legs are warm, clumsily tangled with his own, and they feel even warmer with the blanket shielding them from the chilly air of the cell. They had been reluctant, initially, to use the blanket – the guards could argue they were purposefully hiding themselves, attempt to separate them..

It feels pointless, that they would attempt to do so, which Slaine pointed out. So now they lie together on Slaine's thin, lumpy mattress, kept relatively warm by his blanket.

“As high as they'll go,” Slaine says with a smile, this one far more gentler, more calmer than yesterday. That look in his eyes is mostly subdued, too, and he seems.. at peace; his teal eyes are softer than Inaho has ever seen them, and if it were not for their impending fates looming over them, he would think it to be a drastic, important change to his previous behaviour. “I want them to try and reach the sky,” he adds in a murmur, and Inaho's mouth goes dry.

“I understand,” the brunet murmurs, tightening his grasp on Slaine's hands, squeezing them just enough to show that he does, in fact, _understand_. That he is present, and here, and right with him.

Slaine returns the touch as gently as he can, fingers gently rubbing Inaho's knuckles. “Can they be white?”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

“Slaine.”

This is the last time he will hear his name in such a gentle, loving manner.

Turning a bit, Slaine meets Inaho's dark, dark eye, full of the emotion he has been withholding during their three, short years together.

Pain. Guilt. Regret. Anger.

Love.

“Inaho,” Slaine returns, remaining still as the other walks toward him, steps loud in the spacious room, too loud, too heavy. A smile is on his lips, clumsy and painful, and his teal eyes are puffy and red from crying too, too much last night. Heart pounding in his chest, he forces himself to breathe in, and then out, shaky again, and his hammering heart calms, just a bit, just enough for him to remain here and not sprint and try to run away.

A week was not enough. A week will never be enough, for either of them, for anyone.

Inaho's hands are balled into tight fists, shaking a bit as he stops just mere inches from Slaine, composure so, so close to breaking. “I..” he starts to say, and this time the words are caught in _his_ throat, bittersweet and heavy in _his_ mouth, and for a few moments, Slaine is a blur of blue and white before him. Slaine is a blur, but he cannot bring himself to say it. “.. if things.. were different..” he whispers, taking one last step forward.

Slaine closes the distance between them, brushing their lips together for only a moment, for the first time, the last time. “If things were different,” he whispers back, and Inaho's hand feels like a vice on his sweater, nails digging through the woollen cloth.

Inaho is warm, and he is squeezing him so hard, for once, he feels _real_.

“.. I love you, too,” Slaine amends, and his lips start to sting again, taste of copper and iron as he tries to stop himself from crying.

And he does.

Truly.

Inaho can only remain still as Slaine pulls away from him completely, and the warmth is gone, having slipped through his fingers like water. Breathing out softly, shakily, he remains glued to his spot as Slaine walks away from him, unable to help the gnawing, aching pain in his chest, where his heart is. “Slaine,” he calls one last time, and the blond turns to face him, slowly, “I love you.”

And he does.

Truly, he does.

“.. in another universe,” Slaine says with a sad laugh, “things could be different. For the both of us.” For the last time, the _first_ time, he offers Inaho a smile, a real one, genuine and warm and loving and heartbreaking. “Goodbye, Inaho.”

“Goodbye, Slaine.”

Perhaps..

.. this is why it hurts, so much.


	2. Chapter 2

“It's beautiful.”

Inaho turns his head just a bit to gaze at the blond rose beside him, mismatched eyes lingering on Slaine's lips before flickering back to his eyes, eyes that are currently lit up with glee. The dirt is cool underneath his head, and it messes up his hair he knows; Slaine's pale, pale hair is currently stained a light brown at the back, and they are both in need of a bath. “.. it is,” he murmurs, “And since you woke up, we can share this, every night.”

Slaine turns his head at that, a small, warm smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You're just glad you have someone to keep you warm,” he returns, and the brunet cannot help but smile at that, both of them still learning how familiar the other is.

Their hands lie side by side on the dirt, fingertips barely touching – if they were any closer, they would fall asleep, having become used to sharing their bed of petals for the past month and a half Slaine has been awake.

It feels nice, when they are together.

Safe.

Warm.

Slaine cannot imagine a world where he had woken up without Inaho to be by his side.

“I enjoy your presence,” Inaho admits, and Slaine's smile softens at the admission, features gentle, content. Remaining quiet as the other gives his attention back to the starry sky, his eyes slip to Slaine's neck, where there is a relatively even, barely visible scar going all the way 'round. Slaine had told him that he had been in the air before everything went dark. Before he 'died'.

Inaho is still unsure of what exactly that entails, and does not want to ask. Remembering.. would hurt, for the both of them.

Tearing his gaze away from the rose at his side, he forces himself to look up above as well, staring up instead at the two moons and stars decorating their sky. During the night, they shine and shine, and Inaho has realised that Slaine's silhouette looks.. comforting, in the moonlight. It serves as a reminder that the blond is here, with him, and they can now go and look upon the sky whenever they wish.

It is.. indeed quite beautiful.

Slaine has made him go out and look at things more, experience more, _pause_ more since he has woken up – before, the walks were enough, and he would stop if anything caught his attention.. Slaine, however, prefers to stop quite often, taking in their surroundings, talking excitedly about this world. Perhaps it is because he has recently woken up. Perhaps it is those memories in his head making him curious.

Either way..

Inaho's gaze flickers toward the being at his side once more, their twin moons and the shining, colourful stars of no interest to him with Slaine right beside him. “Slaine,” he calls, and his next words get caught in his throat when the rose turns to look at him.

“.. yes?” Slaine prompts, warm, teal eyes lingering on Inaho's own, “Inaho?”

Inaho breathes out softly, and allows himself a smile, one that feels easy on his lips, _happy_ , “Nothing. I'm glad you woke up.”

Slaine's own smile softens, and he nods a bit, “I'm glad, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> *this was written last year  
> *this is a prequel to the flower people AU  
> *fic title translates roughly to 'a second chance'


End file.
